the forgotten room




southwest is the scullery, where you belong

amidst the pots and pans and unwashed underthings

and moutains of fluffy white bubbles

and clean tile,

and hunger for fame.

next door is the kitchen,

you hear shouting and smell

cinnamon, roast pork, apple sauce

but when something's burnt, the smoke carries twice as far

fills the room and clings to the draperies

and all the nice things suddenly vanish beneath the

black clouds.

the rain is the worst!

whenever it's washing day, you know the routine

the sky will get dark

and seasonal depression sets in, your scullery

your pots and pans and unwashed underthings,

your sink full of flat brown water,

your next fifty years scrubbing tiles,

where you belong.

it all gets soaking wet

(and you hate it).